Tour of Homos: Alan Gold's or Hey, Mr. DJ!

Ever hang out at the bar in the Days Inn in downtown Chattanooga? You haven't? Oh. Yeah, well neither have Edith and I. But if we had then I would know that it was a high class establihment that offered all the trimmings. Cigarette burn holes in the plastic table cloth? They've got multiple... at every table! Stripper pole? It's on the raised stage! They thought of everything except customer service. I wondered why it was taking 30 minutes for our waitress just to take our order. Then I realized it was because we were literally the only occupied table in the place, so clearly she was swamped.

Ever hang out at night under an overpass in an unmarked, windowless van with the door open almost as though you are waiting for something, say, a victim? You have? Then that must have been you Edith and I saw in Chattanooga. I hope I'm not embarrassing you when I say that your aura of Holy-Shit-I'm-Going-To-Die is unparalleled. Because, holy shit, I thought I was going to die on our walk from the hotel to Chattanooga's gay bar, Alan Gold's. Little did I know that the danger lied not with the rapist troll under the bridge but inside Alan Gold's. That's where I died. On the inside. From prolonged exposure to obnoxiousness.

It's rare, but occasionally Edith and I will come down with boogie fever. When that happens the only prescription is salt. ... and her friend, Pepa. As any good American citizen - nay, any good citizen of the world does, we like to push it. Push it good. Push it real good, in fact. Unfortunately, the DJ did not realize how afflicted we were so we traversed the empty dance floor and explained our predicament. "So you see, Mr. DJ, it's a medical emergency." And that's when we were told that he doesn't take requests unless you tip him. Excuse me?! I suddenly understand why Wild Cherry was so hostile towards the white boy when he didn't play that funky music. This request surcharge seemed outrageous to us considering we had the answer to his Empty Dance Floor Blues, but we were tourists and therefore suckers so we dropped some dollar bills into the jar and waited for our song.

And waited. And waited. And waited some more. But we never heard it. All we heard was the same unch-unch-unch beat with lyrics behind it - some recognizable, others unknown. Of the songs we knew, there were a few good ones but all of them were butchered by the thumping club beat. I don't understand the need for the techofication of perfectly good, already danceable songs. Britney Spears' songs, for instance, are genetically engineered to be played at dance clubs. Adding the standard dance beat to Toxic is like taking a seedless orange and removing the seeds. Layering one track over your entire MP3 collection does not a DJ make. All it makes is a tool abusing Garage Band. Good DJs dissect, remix, mash up, and pair songs all in the name of enhancing the music and dance experience. Shitty DJs make all the songs sound the same so as not to confuse and scare the coke-addled brains of the queens that wear Gucci because it's what fancy people wear, not because they understand fashion, quality, or style. One of those queens happened to be on the dance floor that night. And it's quite probable that he got his dance instruction from his As Seen on TV VHS, Darrin's Dance Groves 2: Jazzercise Boogaloo.

The clubs that hire these shitty DJs also tend to be the clubs that line every single wall with speakers and turn up the volume to ear bleeding decibles. It's like they're trying to accomplish going plaid. Keep the music on the dance floor, kids. Maybe this makes me an old fuddy-duddy, but screaming like Al Pacino just to be heard and straining so hard to hear Edith that I poop myself a little everytime she speaks is not enjoyable. Certain areas of the bar need to turn it down to a low airplane engine roar, right? Am I crazy to want to talk to the people I go out with or start conversations with people I may meet? Is this why shallow Abercrombie twinks only seem to go to clubs in homogenous groups? Because the conversation would have been so vapidly boring that not having it because the music is too loud is a better alternative? There is so much I don't understand about club culture. I should look into a continuing education course; something like Technofication 101. But not in Chattanooga. All I wanted to do there was stumble back to the Days Inn then drive the hell home.

Ever hang out at the bar in the Days Inn in downtown Chattanooga? You haven't? Oh. Yeah, well neither have Edith and I. But if we had then I would know that it was a high class establihment that offered all the trimmings. Cigarette burn holes in the plastic table cloth? They've got multiple... at every table! Stripper pole? It's on the raised stage! They thought of everything except customer service. I wondered why it was taking 30 minutes for our waitress just to take our order. Then I realized it was because we were literally the only occupied table in the place, so clearly she was swamped.<br /><br />Ever hang out at night under an overpass in an unmarked, windowless van with the door open almost as though you are waiting for something, say, a victim? You have? Then that must have been you Edith and I saw in Chattanooga. I hope I'm not embarrassing you when I say that your aura of Holy-Shit-I'm-Going-To-Die is unparalleled. Because, holy shit, I thought I was going to die on our walk from the hotel to Chattanooga's gay bar, Alan Gold's. Little did I know that the danger lied not with the rapist troll under the bridge but inside Alan Gold's. That's where I died. On the inside. From prolonged exposure to obnoxiousness.<span class="fullpost"><br /><br />It's rare, but occasionally Edith and I will come down with boogie fever. When that happens the only prescription is salt. ... and her friend, Pepa. As any good American citizen - nay, any good citizen of the world does, we like to push it. Push it good. Push it real good, in fact. Unfortunately, the DJ did not realize how afflicted we were so we traversed the empty dance floor and explained our predicament. "So you see, Mr. DJ, it's a medical emergency." And that's when we were told that he doesn't take requests unless you tip him. Excuse me?! I suddenly understand why Wild Cherry was so hostile towards the white boy when he didn't play that funky music. This request surcharge seemed outrageous to us considering we had the answer to his Empty Dance Floor Blues, but we were tourists and therefore suckers so we dropped some dollar bills into the jar and waited for our song.<br /><br />And waited. And waited. And waited some more. But we never heard it. All we heard was the same <em>unch-unch-unch</em> beat with lyrics behind it - some recognizable, others unknown. Of the songs we knew, there were a few good ones but all of them were butchered by the thumping club beat. I don't understand the need for the techofication of perfectly good, already danceable songs. Britney Spears' songs, for instance, are genetically engineered to be played at dance clubs. Adding the standard dance beat to Toxic is like taking a seedless orange and removing the seeds. Layering one track over your entire MP3 collection does not a DJ make. All it makes is a tool abusing Garage Band. Good DJs dissect, remix, mash up, and pair songs all in the name of enhancing the music and dance experience. Shitty DJs make all the songs sound the same so as not to confuse and scare the coke-addled brains of the queens that wear Gucci because it's what fancy people wear, not because they understand fashion, quality, or style. One of those queens happened to be on the dance floor that night. And it's quite probable that he got his dance instruction from his As Seen on TV VHS, <em>Darrin's Dance Groves 2: Jazzercise Boogaloo</em>.<br /><br />The clubs that hire these shitty DJs also tend to be the clubs that line every single wall with speakers and turn up the volume to ear bleeding decibles. It's like they're trying to accomplish <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mk7VWcuVOf0">going plaid</a>. Keep the music on the dance floor, kids. Maybe this makes me an old fuddy-duddy, but screaming like Al Pacino just to be heard and straining so hard to hear Edith that I poop myself a little everytime she speaks is not enjoyable. Certain areas of the bar need to turn it down to a low airplane engine roar, right? Am I crazy to want to talk to the people I go out with or start conversations with people I may meet? Is this why shallow Abercrombie twinks only seem to go to clubs in homogenous groups? Because the conversation would have been so vapidly boring that not having it because the music is too loud is a better alternative? There is so much I don't understand about club culture. I should look into a continuing education course; something like Technofication 101. But not in Chattanooga. All I wanted to do there was stumble back to the Days Inn then drive the hell home.<br /></span><p></p>

The Non-Gay San Fransisco

I know! I'm surprised too. I went to San Fransisco and the only thing gay I have to report is my crush on our adorable host, another old friend of Edith's. He was like Thumper with sex appeal (is dog on bunny still considered beastiality?). Instead of a day of homobauchery, it turned out to be a really classy day of fine drinking.


We started north of the city in Napa Valley. We found a little winery named Bouchaine down some winding vineyard encased roads. Everything from the grapevines to the breeze was gorgeous. Neither Edith nor I had been to a wine tasting prior to this. Truth be told, I do not have a particularly advanced palate. I don't know what undertones are and I've never once used the word "earthy" to describe what was in my mouth. Oh, except for when I was a puppy and I ate dirt simply because I was too lazy to go inside to get actual food. ... Huh, I never noticed this before but that's exactly how I ended up sleeping with most of the people on my Been There list.

My relative ignorance didn't matter, however. Our pourer lady was friendly and informative and educated me quite a bit. For instance, did you know there are only three types of grapes allowed in champagne? Chardonnay, pinot noir, and pinot meunier. Well, you probably did. But I didn't. I also didn't have champagne, but we did have the wines made from those three types of grapes. I picked up hints of deliciousness and subtle notes of 13% alcohol by volume. After we had way more peaceful happiness than either of us could stand, we drove into the city to meet up with Thumper.

As it happens, one of the new trends in San Fransisco is a trend that I happen to fully endorse (Hint: It's not handlebar mustaches, so stop trying to make that happen, you skinny hipster fucks). It's exquisite cocktails. There are also a few places in Atlanta that employ mixologists and are bringing back Prohibition era, handmade cocktails. I'm talking drinks that involve egg whites or basil or white whiskey. I'm a big fan. Seeing as how I don't particularly like my drinks sugary I was never able to lap up a frozen bahama coladarita at TGI Fridays, but the usual blank on the rocks or martini was getting a bit boring. I often find myself jazzed when a bar has cocktail onions for a gin gibson because at least onions in my martini gives the illusion of variety. Also? I f'in love cocktail onions. Now that I can go to a bar and order a cocktail made with absinthe or bacon-infused bourbon, Dot Martix's Alcoholic Alarm is sounding more than ever. It's great!

I had a great time in San Fransisco trying the many cocktails at the two places Thumper took us. I would tell you the names and give a more detailed review, but, honestly, I don't remember the names and any attempt at reviews I've written are more boring than this post so I'll spare you. I will, however, mention that thanks to San Fran and Thumper I discovered a new liquor and that excites me to no end. It's called genever and, as it was described to me, is halfway between whiskey and gin. I was skeptical since that description makes no sense, but once you try it you realize it's somehow true. Genever is a dutch liquor made with juniper that the English evolved into gin as we know it. Sort of a proto-gin. So although I don't have all the palatey words to talk about it, I'm glad for the non-gay education I got in drinking that day. Next visit, though, I'm gonna fuck my way through the Castro until I'm the Grand Marshall of the Pride Parade.

I know! I'm surprised too. I went to San Fransisco and the only thing gay I have to report is my crush on our adorable host, another old friend of Edith's. He was like Thumper with sex appeal (is dog on bunny still considered beastiality?). Instead of a day of homobauchery, it turned out to be a really classy day of fine drinking.<br /><br /><span class="fullpost"><br />We started north of the city in Napa Valley. We found a little winery named Bouchaine down some winding vineyard encased roads. Everything from the grapevines to the breeze was gorgeous. Neither Edith nor I had been to a wine tasting prior to this. Truth be told, I do not have a particularly advanced palate. I don't know what undertones are and I've never once used the word "earthy" to describe what was in my mouth. Oh, except for when I was a puppy and I ate dirt simply because I was too lazy to go inside to get actual food. ... Huh, I never noticed this before but that's exactly how I ended up sleeping with most of the people on my Been There list.<br /><br />My relative ignorance didn't matter, however. Our pourer lady was friendly and informative and educated me quite a bit. For instance, did you know there are only three types of grapes allowed in champagne? Chardonnay, pinot noir, and pinot meunier. Well, you probably did. But I didn't. I also didn't have champagne, but we did have the wines made from those three types of grapes. I picked up hints of deliciousness and subtle notes of 13% alcohol by volume. After we had way more peaceful happiness than either of us could stand, we drove into the city to meet up with Thumper.<br /><br />As it happens, one of the new trends in San Fransisco is a trend that I happen to fully endorse (Hint: It's not handlebar mustaches, so stop trying to make that happen, you skinny hipster fucks). It's exquisite cocktails. There are also a few places in Atlanta that employ mixologists and are bringing back Prohibition era, handmade cocktails. I'm talking drinks that involve egg whites or basil or white whiskey. I'm a big fan. Seeing as how I don't particularly like my drinks sugary I was never able to lap up a frozen bahama coladarita at TGI Fridays, but the usual blank on the rocks or martini was getting a bit boring. I often find myself jazzed when a bar has cocktail onions for a gin gibson because at least onions in my martini gives the illusion of variety. Also? I f'in love cocktail onions. Now that I can go to a bar and order a cocktail made with absinthe or bacon-infused bourbon, Dot Martix's Alcoholic Alarm is sounding more than ever. It's great!<br /><br />I had a great time in San Fransisco trying the many cocktails at the two places Thumper took us. I would tell you the names and give a more detailed review, but, honestly, I don't remember the names and any attempt at reviews I've written are more boring than this post so I'll spare you. I will, however, mention that thanks to San Fran and Thumper I discovered a new liquor and that excites me to no end. It's called genever and, as it was described to me, is halfway between whiskey and gin. I was skeptical since that description makes no sense, but once you try it you realize it's somehow true. Genever is a dutch liquor made with juniper that the English evolved into gin as we know it. Sort of a proto-gin. So although I don't have all the palatey words to talk about it, I'm glad for the non-gay education I got in drinking that day. Next visit, though, I'm gonna fuck my way through the Castro until I'm the Grand Marshall of the Pride Parade.</span><br /><p></p>

Tour of Homos: Krave OR How I Became Mortally Offended

I rarely go places that charge a cover. There is no room on this planet worth an entrance fee. After all, what's the main feature at a club? The dance floor. What is a dance floor? A big, empty space. Why should I pay good money for an empty space? This same logic was applied later in the trip when Edith and I forewent the Grand Canyon. But I found myself paying the $10 it cost to enter Krave with a k just off the Las Vegas Strip.


Earlier, Edith and I were trying to find the so-called Fruit Loop, a group of gay bars all near each other. I'd sort of heard of it from my previous trip four years ago and knew it's general location but not the specific bars. It had been recommended by the front desk girl at our hotel. Perhaps I should have been skeptical. I mean, the hotel only cost $9. How much could the advice possibly be worth? We asked our concierge for directions to the delightfully named Ramrod but she managed to talk us into trying the Fruit Loop. Armed with the vicinity as well as a few bar names, we boarded the bus. It was a surprisingly long trip made worse by the bus driver abusing the PA system and trying out his misogynistic comedy routine on his captive audience. He made such humorous observations as "women can't drive" and "you better get some food at 7Eleven because your wife won't have dinner ready for you." He was clearly a Second City alum.

Getting off -- the bus needing a two drink minimum more than ever -- we set out for the fruits. Upon discovering both Hamburger Mary's and Rainbow Bar and Grill to be shut down, we scoured for one of the others. And thus began the ill-advised trudge towards the Strip. Which only got better... oh, I'm sorry, I meant wetter when the rain began. Edith and her hooker heels made me promise to stop in the first place with alcohol. By happenstance, that place was a gay club... with a $10 cover: Krave with a k.

After we paid to enter, I was determined to get $10 worth of fun. The male go-go dancer was going to provide it about as much as his hair dye provided the illusion of him being blonde. The female go-go dancer, though oddly out of place, was a smidge better but still not worth $10. The other patrons weren't going to provide it either. The drunk girl trying to get everyone to dance was just annoying. The 4'10" lesbian and her Jew-haired friend stepped off the dance floor way too early and really only gave about $4 worth of entertainment. The old man recovering from knee surgery slowly sliding towards the obviously underage little bottom boy was just sad. And the crazy looking German girl cost me another $10 (Lesson: Never bet against Edith if she declares someone to be German). Our DJ for the evening must have gotten suckered in by a special TV offer and paid $9.99 plus S&H for the DVD instructional video "How to be a Gay DJ Stereotype." Was nobody going to give me a return on my investment?

And then on top of it all, Krave with a k offended my delicate sensibilities. Walking up to the shirtless bartender, I ordered gin on the rocks and requested the cheapest they had when asked (since I was essentially mugged at the entrance). He returned holding two bottles, his pecks flexing as he held out a plastic bottle of generic gin that not even I'd heard of and said, "8 dollars." Then some triceps did a little spasm as he held out a bottle of Tanqueray and said, "9 dollars."

"Excuse me?! Are you saying the difference between your well drinks and Tanqueray is one dollar?"

He was.

"Do you have any drink specials?"

He didn't.

"Well then I guess I'll get the Tanqueray." I was miffed but $9 for a drink in a place like this in a city like Vegas was alright, I supposed. And then... oh, this is the worst... and then! He pulled out a jigger and poured precisely one shot of gin and unceremoniously dumped it over a pile of ice cubes.

Really, Krave with a k? Really?! You're measuring your rocks drinks? Wow. What the fuck kind of gay bar is this? Are you expecting us to have sex with each other sober? My god, shirtless man, think of Old Man Gimp back there. Will his underage boy pussy really give it up because of how accurately you pour your overpriced liquor? If you are going to jigger it out then you charge no more than $4 for gin that comes in a plastic bottle. It's like you read the gay bar commandments, scoffed, and smashed the tablets with your Gucci sponsored muscles. You may as well have climbed over the bar and used the jigger to scoop my heart out and charge me $9 for the experience. I hate you, Krave with a k and I want my $10 back.

I rarely go places that charge a cover. There is no room on this planet worth an entrance fee. After all, what's the main feature at a club? The dance floor. What is a dance floor? A big, empty space. Why should I pay good money for an empty space? This same logic was applied later in the trip when Edith and I forewent the Grand Canyon. But I found myself paying the $10 it cost to enter Krave with a k just off the Las Vegas Strip.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br /><br />Earlier, Edith and I were trying to find the so-called Fruit Loop, a group of gay bars all near each other. I'd sort of heard of it from my previous trip four years ago and knew it's general location but not the specific bars. It had been recommended by the front desk girl at our hotel. Perhaps I should have been skeptical. I mean, the hotel only cost $9. How much could the advice possibly be worth? We asked our concierge for directions to the delightfully named Ramrod but she managed to talk us into trying the Fruit Loop. Armed with the vicinity as well as a few bar names, we boarded the bus. It was a surprisingly long trip made worse by the bus driver abusing the PA system and trying out his misogynistic comedy routine on his captive audience. He made such humorous observations as "women can't drive" and "you better get some food at 7Eleven because your wife won't have dinner ready for you." He was clearly a Second City alum.<br /><br />Getting off -- the bus needing a two drink minimum more than ever -- we set out for the fruits. Upon discovering both Hamburger Mary's and Rainbow Bar and Grill to be shut down, we scoured for one of the others. And thus began the ill-advised trudge towards the Strip. Which only got better... oh, I'm sorry, I meant wetter when the rain began. Edith and her hooker heels made me promise to stop in the first place with alcohol. By happenstance, that place was a gay club... with a $10 cover: Krave with a k.<br /><br />After we paid to enter, I was determined to get $10 worth of fun. The male go-go dancer was going to provide it about as much as his hair dye provided the illusion of him being blonde. The female go-go dancer, though oddly out of place, was a smidge better but still not worth $10. The other patrons weren't going to provide it either. The drunk girl trying to get everyone to dance was just annoying. The 4'10" lesbian and her Jew-haired friend stepped off the dance floor way too early and really only gave about $4 worth of entertainment. The old man recovering from knee surgery slowly sliding towards the obviously underage little bottom boy was just sad. And the crazy looking German girl cost me another $10 (Lesson: Never bet against Edith if she declares someone to be German). Our DJ for the evening must have gotten suckered in by a special TV offer and paid $9.99 plus S&H for the DVD instructional video "How to be a Gay DJ Stereotype." Was nobody going to give me a return on my investment?<br /><br />And then on top of it all, Krave with a k offended my delicate sensibilities. Walking up to the shirtless bartender, I ordered gin on the rocks and requested the cheapest they had when asked (since I was essentially mugged at the entrance). He returned holding two bottles, his pecks flexing as he held out a plastic bottle of generic gin that not even I'd heard of and said, "8 dollars." Then some triceps did a little spasm as he held out a bottle of Tanqueray and said, "9 dollars."<br /><br />"Excuse me?! Are you saying the difference between your well drinks and Tanqueray is <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">one</span> dollar?"<br /><br />He was.<br /><br />"Do you have any drink specials?"<br /><br />He didn't.<br /><br />"Well then I guess I'll get the Tanqueray." I was miffed but $9 for a drink in a place like this in a city like Vegas was alright, I supposed. And then... oh, this is the worst... and then! He pulled out a jigger and poured <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">precisely</span> one shot of gin and unceremoniously dumped it over a pile of ice cubes.<br /><br />Really, Krave with a k? Really?! You're measuring your rocks drinks? Wow. What the fuck kind of gay bar is this? Are you expecting us to have sex with each other sober? My god, shirtless man, think of Old Man Gimp back there. Will his underage boy pussy really give it up because of how accurately you pour your overpriced liquor? If you are going to jigger it out then you charge no more than $4 for gin that comes in a plastic bottle. It's like you read the gay bar commandments, scoffed, and smashed the tablets with your Gucci sponsored muscles. You may as well have climbed over the bar and used the jigger to scoop my heart out and charge me $9 for the experience. I hate you, Krave with a k and I want my $10 back.<br /></span>

An Open Letter to the Homeless of Portland

Dear Homeless Man Interrupting My Conversation:

You don't get to be homeless AND vegan. Pick one.

Love,
Tranny Dog

Dear Homeless Man Interrupting My Conversation:<br /><br />You don't get to be homeless AND vegan. Pick one.<br /><br />Love,<br />Tranny Dog<br /><p>

The Saga of Sassy and Sour: A Foray into Portland's Nude Women

"Can I get a vodka with lemon juice?"
"We don't have lemon juice."
"Oh. Do you have lemons?"
"No. We've got limes." They also had strippers. And a great jukebox. Unfortunately, as Edith would say about vodka and lime juice, those two were a strange combination.

"While you're in Portland, we need to take you to a strip club," Harley insisted. Harley is a childhood friend of Edith's and, along with her boyfriend, our extremely gracious host in the City of Roses. She explained that strip clubs were as numerous there as churches in the south. My cursory glance proved her correct. The great thing about Portland strip clubs, however, is that they are completely lacking in cover charges. This coupled with the cheap drink prices make them an appealing option for a night on the town.

"I'd like to go, I've never been to a strip club that had women dancing," Edith said. And added her disclaimer, "As long as I don't have to get a lap dance."

"She didn't have the best experience at the male strip club," I offered as an explanation to Harley. It was true. Months ago, Jonathan Joseph and I took Edith, her boyfriend, and the transtacular Kimberly to Swinging Richards. It wasn't the first time Edith had been to Atlanta's cleverly named gay strip club but it was to become her last. On previous visits, she picked up on the not-so-subtle anti-biological woman vibe. On this visit, she experienced a scarring event that I inadvertently set into motion.

The dancers at Swinging Richards are a relatively diverse set -- relative for a bunch of waxed, toned strippers, anyway. But one thing they have in common is abhorrent dancing skills. Some don't even try, they just sway back and forth and make Male Stripper Face. This is a face made by all men who take off their clothes for money. I can't tell if it's a biological instinct or a stated part of the job description, but it's all pursed lips and vacant eyes. The pretense of fantasy. Every now and then at Richards, you'll come across a dancer who truly enjoys his job or, at least, likes to show off his moves. That night we saw one of these elusive orchids. He was on stage acting like Dr. Moreau's hybrid of Nadia Comaneci and Napoleon Dynamite. It was intriguing.

Edith wanted to tip Nadia Dynamite a few dollars for his troubles but was far too shy to be face-to-face with a stripper herself. I agreed to do it if she gave me the money. So up I went and as I slipped the dollar bills into his arm band I asked Nads for a small favor. "You see that girl at my table? Can you please look directly at her and wink? Thanks." There would be little else as cheesy and awkward as a wink, I thought. But alas, my inspired plan was not to come to fruition. He finished dancing and left the stage without so much as a blink. "Meh," I thought as the conversation moved on to other spectacles.

When suddenly! and without warning! Edith's chair went spinning around. But before I could call the Ghost Hunters, I saw Nads mount Edith and begin grinding. Apparently, "please wink at her" translates to "please flap your penis in her face" in Stripperese. And flap he did! And gyrate, and bend, and twist, and shout, and hang upside down from the ceiling. Halfway through this feat of athleticism, I realized this would cost money... that I didn't have. Luckily, between the non-mushroom bruised people at the table, we were able to afford this gymnastic sadist's fee.

Edith shuddered as we relayed all this to the highly amused Harley. After we assured her that a lap dance would not happen, we found ourselves on the way to what Harley warned us was a strange and wonderful place, aptly named Magic Gardens.

"No. We've got limes," Patty offered.
"Just get me a vodka cranberry," Edith asked, defeated. This was the third bar in Portland that night not to have lemon juice but the first not to even have lemons. It seemed the city had traded citrus for strippers.

Patty shrugged and began mixing. I would have loved to sit Patty down and hear all the stories she had to tell. There she was at least 70 years old, wonderfully disinterested in you, pouring your drink while ladies took off their clothes around her. I also took note of how she made these drinks as I'd never seen a soda gun used for liquor before. I'm not even sure how that works. Are there regular bottles attached? That seems like a bitch to change out every 5 minutes. Are there special bags of liquor concentrate you can buy like the soda syrups? I had to know!

But, sadly, I couldn't marvel at Patty for very long. Mostly because she clearly wanted nothing to do with us, so we moved on to a table. In addition to Patty, and the large Samoan bouncer whose picture is in the dictionary next to "man who can clearly bounce your ass off pavement," Harley had mentioned the music as part of the strange wonderfulness of Magic Gardens. It was all eminating for a jukebox with a great selection of songs. Well, great selection in my opinion. But despite you and I's varied musical taste, I think we can both agree that it's odd to watch strippers dance to the following numbers:
The Cure - Close to Me
Feist - 1,2,3,4
Lesley Gore - You Don't Own Me (I will admit to the appropriateness of this one.)
Some mid-tempo Top 40 hit from The Fray or their ilk whining about feelings
(and my personal favorite) Billy Joel - Uptown Girl

To give these ladies their props, they handled the music very well. Even when they were Windexing down the stage from the previous dancer, it was like they were fulfilling some deep seeded Cinderella fantasy. Edith was amazed at how much better women are at stripping than men. Harley's boyfriend attributes it, in part, to women's ability to remove their clothing without the Male Stripper Face affliction. I try not to look at female strippers' faces because I feel bad when they make eye contact and I continue to not tip. Everytime I'm at a straight strip bar I feel like I need to wear a tiara emblazoned with the words "I Orgasm For Dick" just to make the message clear. Not that they care. A non-tipping asshole is a non-tipping asshole.

So having seen Grammy nominated 1,2,3,4 used as an alluring prelude to the actual tippers night o' masturbation, Harley then dazzled us with talk of the best strip club in town. And off we went to Sassy. Yes, that's right: Sassy. Though perhaps Post Apocolyptic Dystopian Future would be a more accurate name. Guarding the gate into Mad Max's Inferno is a less gay, more angry Wez from The Road Warrior. When Wez questioned my Georgia ID, I simply stood by patiently and occupied my eyes with his skull tattoos so as to avoid staring at the largest of several knives hanging from his belt.

As Magic Gardens' niche was tainting my childhood memories of Billy Joel with taint, Sassy's was punk rock angry-hot chicks. The guys that do make it past Wez and his Kevlar vest are clearly looking for a woman that considers slapping you to be foreplay. But shhh... don't tell their sorority girlfriends that's what they are into. It was packed with frat boys in polo shirts (and one in a Hawaiian shirt) with some seriously repressed kinkiness. One of the popular ladies didn't even dance. She just worked out on stage. Ever see a naked woman hang upside down from a vertical pole by just her legs and proceed to do sit ups? I have. And I've seen Sigma Phi Epsilons love it. The SigEps were even throwing one of their ambassadors a bachelor party the night we went.

Poor Jorge. Or poor George -- he was referred to as both so I couldn't tell. But whatever his name was, I'm sure he's legally changed it by now out of sheer embarrasement. When the DJ announced Jorge was getting married, his friends erupted in hoots and hollers while he sank so low in his chair that I was afraid he'd hit an iceberg. After an absurd amount of cajoling (during which Harley's boyfriend brilliantly yelled out, "She'll never forgive you!") the DJ was forced to remind him over the microphone that his friends are not getting their money back no matter what so Jorge was finally led up to the stage. Apparently, the Bachelor Light Special at Sassy involves seating the betrothed in the center of the stage while dancers descend onto him in a frenzy not unlike feral cats in heat. Jorge was sitting on his hands not moving a muscle. The terror in his eyes was mounting with each passing note of Billy Idol's White Wedding. When the girls busted out the dildo and fucked his belly button, I swear Jorge was going to cry. His wildest fantasies were being fulfilled... nightmarishly in public.

The girl who produced the dildo was Malice. In addition to having one of the greatest stage names, she was Harley's favorite stripper and the reason we came. It was pretty clear why. Like Nads Dynamite, Malice enjoyed what she did. Unlike Nads Dynamite, Malice was good at what she did. Her moves weren't cheesy and ridiculous, they were sexy. She was a striking, thin woman that when including her bleach blonde fluffy mohawk was about 7'8". Bitch had stage presence. Harley forced Edith to go up to the stage and tip. Edith's brave little step was rewarded with a face full of mohawk, Malice's signature move, it seemed. According to my sources, the mohawk smells lovely and floral. Which I must say is polite if you insist on rubbing people's faces with it via back bends.

Not polite, however, is the asshole who designed the men's rooms. For comparison, I take you once again to Swinging Richards. Walk into that men's room and you'll notice one thing first: the mirrors. All along the walls surrounding the urinals are mirrors. So at any angle at any point in the oddly shaped restroom you are able to see everyone else taking a leak. I think it's designed to foster a sense of community. For a more private bathroom experience, they offer stalls. As a sidenote, if you are ever in there then I recommend using the slightly hidden sink as the big one is often manned by one of those godforsaken washroom attendants. "Oh my! Is that how the faucet works? Thank you, my savior! Here, please take my money for doing an overly simple task I was going to do myself before you heroically swept in uninvited and did it for me." Though as a sidenote to the sidenote, a friend of mine was once one of those dreaded people at Richards and apparently there is good money in it.

In keeping with the post apocolyptic vibe, Sassy does not offer anything as upscale as washroom attendants. They don't even offer as much privacy as the mirrored place where horny gay men go to unzip their pants and hold their dicks in their hands. The men at Sassy, who are there for the naked ladies, walk into an open room whose ambience suggests that of a crack den and stand all in a row urinating into a trough. The last time I peed into a trough? Excellent question. If, however, your bathroom itinerary contains more than simple lizard draining then allow me to direct you to the single toilet. You'll find it in the stall, but don't worry because it's not that hard to spot... since the stall, like the bathroom, has no door on it.

All of this was going to require liquor.
"Do you guys have lemon juice?" Edith inquired.
"Sorry, no," the bartender replied. "I've got sour mix."
"Fine."
And so Edith drank her vodka sour. Garnished with a lemon wedge.
"Can I get a vodka with lemon juice?"<br />"We don't have lemon juice."<br />"Oh. Do you have lemons?"<br />"No. We've got limes." They also had strippers. And a great jukebox. Unfortunately, as Edith would say about vodka and lime juice, those two were a strange combination.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br />"While you're in Portland, we need to take you to a strip club," Harley insisted. Harley is a childhood friend of Edith's and, along with her boyfriend, our extremely gracious host in the City of Roses. She explained that strip clubs were as numerous there as churches in the south. My cursory glance proved her correct. The great thing about Portland strip clubs, however, is that they are completely lacking in cover charges. This coupled with the cheap drink prices make them an appealing option for a night on the town.<br /><br />"I'd like to go, I've never been to a strip club that had women dancing," Edith said. And added her disclaimer, "As long as I don't have to get a lap dance."<br /><br />"She didn't have the best experience at the male strip club," I offered as an explanation to Harley. It was true. Months ago, Jonathan Joseph and I took Edith, her boyfriend, and the transtacular Kimberly to Swinging Richards. It wasn't the first time Edith had been to Atlanta's cleverly named gay strip club but it was to become her last. On previous visits, she picked up on the not-so-subtle anti-biological woman vibe. On this visit, she experienced a scarring event that I inadvertently set into motion.<br /><br />The dancers at Swinging Richards are a relatively diverse set -- relative for a bunch of waxed, toned strippers, anyway. But one thing they have in common is abhorrent dancing skills. Some don't even try, they just sway back and forth and make Male Stripper Face. This is a face made by all men who take off their clothes for money. I can't tell if it's a biological instinct or a stated part of the job description, but it's all pursed lips and vacant eyes. The pretense of fantasy. Every now and then at Richards, you'll come across a dancer who truly enjoys his job or, at least, likes to show off his moves. That night we saw one of these elusive orchids. He was on stage acting like Dr. Moreau's hybrid of Nadia Comaneci and Napoleon Dynamite. It was intriguing.<br /><br />Edith wanted to tip Nadia Dynamite a few dollars for his troubles but was far too shy to be face-to-face with a stripper herself. I agreed to do it if she gave me the money. So up I went and as I slipped the dollar bills into his arm band I asked Nads for a small favor. "You see that girl at my table? Can you please look directly at her and wink? Thanks." There would be little else as cheesy and awkward as a wink, I thought. But alas, my inspired plan was not to come to fruition. He finished dancing and left the stage without so much as a blink. "Meh," I thought as the conversation moved on to other spectacles.<br /><br />When suddenly! and without warning! Edith's chair went spinning around. But before I could call the Ghost Hunters, I saw Nads mount Edith and begin grinding. Apparently, "please wink at her" translates to "please flap your penis in her face" in Stripperese. And flap he did! And gyrate, and bend, and twist, and shout, and hang upside down from the ceiling. Halfway through this feat of athleticism, I realized this would cost money... that I didn't have. Luckily, between the non-mushroom bruised people at the table, we were able to afford this gymnastic sadist's fee.<br /><br />Edith shuddered as we relayed all this to the highly amused Harley. After we assured her that a lap dance would not happen, we found ourselves on the way to what Harley warned us was a strange and wonderful place, aptly named Magic Gardens.<br /><br />"No. We've got limes," Patty offered.<br />"Just get me a vodka cranberry," Edith asked, defeated. This was the third bar in Portland that night not to have lemon juice but the first not to even have lemons. It seemed the city had traded citrus for strippers.<br /><br />Patty shrugged and began mixing. I would have loved to sit Patty down and hear all the stories she had to tell. There she was at least 70 years old, wonderfully disinterested in you, pouring your drink while ladies took off their clothes around her. I also took note of how she made these drinks as I'd never seen a soda gun used for liquor before. I'm not even sure how that works. Are there regular bottles attached? That seems like a bitch to change out every 5 minutes. Are there special bags of liquor concentrate you can buy like the soda syrups? I had to know!<br /><br />But, sadly, I couldn't marvel at Patty for very long. Mostly because she clearly wanted nothing to do with us, so we moved on to a table. In addition to Patty, and the large Samoan bouncer whose picture is in the dictionary next to "man who can clearly bounce your ass off pavement," Harley had mentioned the music as part of the strange wonderfulness of Magic Gardens. It was all eminating for a jukebox with a great selection of songs. Well, great selection in my opinion. But despite you and I's varied musical taste, I think we can both agree that it's odd to watch strippers dance to the following numbers:<br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIDeUssDFE0">The Cure - Close to Me</a><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3vIv1EwO5A&feature=fvst">Feist - 1,2,3,4</a><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CmOrWG2FTbg">Lesley Gore - You Don't Own Me</a> (I will admit to the appropriateness of this one.)<br />Some mid-tempo Top 40 hit from The Fray or their ilk whining about feelings<br />(and my personal favorite) <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2F-nt7aC_JQ">Billy Joel - Uptown Girl</a><br /><br />To give these ladies their props, they handled the music very well. Even when they were Windexing down the stage from the previous dancer, it was like they were fulfilling some deep seeded Cinderella fantasy. Edith was amazed at how much better women are at stripping than men. Harley's boyfriend attributes it, in part, to women's ability to remove their clothing without the Male Stripper Face affliction. I try not to look at female strippers' faces because I feel bad when they make eye contact and I continue to not tip. Everytime I'm at a straight strip bar I feel like I need to wear a tiara emblazoned with the words "I Orgasm For Dick" just to make the message clear. Not that they care. A non-tipping asshole is a non-tipping asshole.<br /><br />So having seen Grammy nominated <span style="font-style: italic;">1,2,3,4</span> used as an alluring prelude to the actual tippers night o' masturbation, Harley then dazzled us with talk of the best strip club in town. And off we went to Sassy. Yes, that's right: <span style="font-style: italic;">Sassy</span>. Though perhaps Post Apocolyptic Dystopian Future would be a more accurate name. Guarding the gate into Mad Max's Inferno is a less gay, more angry <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jq7x8hkWDEQ">Wez</a> from The Road Warrior. When Wez questioned my Georgia ID, I simply stood by patiently and occupied my eyes with his skull tattoos so as to avoid staring at the largest of several knives hanging from his belt.<br /><br />As Magic Gardens' niche was tainting my childhood memories of Billy Joel with taint, Sassy's was punk rock angry-hot chicks. The guys that do make it past Wez and his Kevlar vest are clearly looking for a woman that considers slapping you to be foreplay. But shhh... don't tell their sorority girlfriends that's what they are into. It was packed with frat boys in polo shirts (and one in a Hawaiian shirt) with some seriously repressed kinkiness. One of the popular ladies didn't even dance. She just worked out on stage. Ever see a naked woman hang upside down from a vertical pole by just her legs and proceed to do sit ups? I have. And I've seen Sigma Phi Epsilons love it. The SigEps were even throwing one of their ambassadors a bachelor party the night we went.<br /><br />Poor Jorge. Or poor George -- he was referred to as both so I couldn't tell. But whatever his name was, I'm sure he's legally changed it by now out of sheer embarrasement. When the DJ announced Jorge was getting married, his friends erupted in hoots and hollers while he sank so low in his chair that I was afraid he'd hit an iceberg. After an absurd amount of cajoling (during which Harley's boyfriend brilliantly yelled out, "She'll never forgive you!") the DJ was forced to remind him over the microphone that his friends are not getting their money back no matter what so Jorge was finally led up to the stage. Apparently, the Bachelor Light Special at Sassy involves seating the betrothed in the center of the stage while dancers descend onto him in a frenzy not unlike feral cats in heat. Jorge was sitting on his hands not moving a muscle. The terror in his eyes was mounting with each passing note of Billy Idol's <span style="font-style: italic;">White Wedding</span>. When the girls busted out the dildo and fucked his belly button, I swear Jorge was going to cry. His wildest fantasies were being fulfilled... nightmarishly in public.<br /><br />The girl who produced the dildo was Malice. In addition to having one of the greatest stage names, she was Harley's favorite stripper and the reason we came. It was pretty clear why. Like Nads Dynamite, Malice enjoyed what she did. Unlike Nads Dynamite, Malice was good at what she did. Her moves weren't cheesy and ridiculous, they were sexy. She was a striking, thin woman that when including her bleach blonde fluffy mohawk was about 7'8". Bitch had stage presence. Harley forced Edith to go up to the stage and tip. Edith's brave little step was rewarded with a face full of mohawk, Malice's signature move, it seemed. According to my sources, the mohawk smells lovely and floral. Which I must say is polite if you insist on rubbing people's faces with it via back bends.<br /><br />Not polite, however, is the asshole who designed the men's rooms. For comparison, I take you once again to Swinging Richards. Walk into that men's room and you'll notice one thing first: the mirrors. All along the walls surrounding the urinals are mirrors. So at any angle at any point in the oddly shaped restroom you are able to see everyone else taking a leak. I think it's designed to foster a sense of community. For a more private bathroom experience, they offer stalls. As a sidenote, if you are ever in there then I recommend using the slightly hidden sink as the big one is often manned by one of those godforsaken washroom attendants. "Oh my! Is that how the faucet works? Thank you, my savior! Here, please take my money for doing an overly simple task I was going to do myself before you heroically swept in uninvited and did it for me." Though as a sidenote to the sidenote, a friend of mine was once one of those dreaded people at Richards and apparently there is good money in it.<br /><br />In keeping with the post apocolyptic vibe, Sassy does not offer anything as upscale as washroom attendants. They don't even offer as much privacy as the mirrored place where horny gay men go to unzip their pants and hold their dicks in their hands. The men at Sassy, who are there for the naked ladies, walk into an open room whose ambience suggests that of a crack den and stand all in a row urinating into a trough. The last time I peed into a trough? Excellent question. If, however, your bathroom itinerary contains more than simple lizard draining then allow me to direct you to the single toilet. You'll find it in the stall, but don't worry because it's not that hard to spot... since the stall, like the bathroom, has no door on it.<br /><br />All of this was going to require liquor.<br />"Do you guys have lemon juice?" Edith inquired.<br />"Sorry, no," the bartender replied. "I've got sour mix."<br />"Fine."<br />And so Edith drank her vodka sour. Garnished with a lemon wedge.</span>

Dude! I Camped on Fireball Island!

Who knew that Fireball Island was masquerading as a national monument near the Oregon Trail in Idaho? I was totally psyched to discover this. They had the pathways, the smolder pits, the stairs, the angry volcano god that tried to kill me. Everything! ... Well, it had morphed its jungles into the Devil's Orchard, forsaking the rain forest for a plethora of desert flora. Also, the caves are now called lava tubes, but I've been in them. They are definitely caves. Anyway, all of that is just Vul-Kar's clever disguise -- I saw through it, though.

Naturally, I spent hours trying to find the jewel (having already secured the token at the top of the North Crater). I went through some pretty mad cap adventures, dodging both fireballs and other explorers (I see you there, Red Guy!), but in the end I realized it was a metaphorical jewel. The treasure was a mosquito-free, relaxing campground with perfect weather. Once I possessed that knowledge, I kicked off my explorin' boots, put away my cards, and basked in my new found riches. Fuck yes.
Who knew that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ujgywX-z9c">Fireball Island</a> was masquerading as a <a href="http://www.nps.gov/crmo/">national monument</a> near the <a href="http://www.nps.gov/archive/crmo/goodale.htm">Oregon Trail</a> in Idaho? I was totally psyched to discover this. They had the pathways, the smolder pits, the stairs, the angry volcano god that tried to kill me. Everything! ... Well, it had morphed its jungles into the Devil's Orchard, forsaking the rain forest for a plethora of desert flora. Also, the caves are now called lava tubes, but I've been in them. They are definitely caves. Anyway, all of that is just Vul-Kar's clever disguise -- I saw through it, though.<br /><br />Naturally, I spent hours trying to find the jewel (having already secured the token at the top of the North Crater). I went through some pretty mad cap adventures, dodging both fireballs and other explorers (I see you there, <a href="http://www.eiksoft.com/fireball/3_l.jpg">Red Guy</a>!), but in the end I realized it was a metaphorical jewel. The treasure was a mosquito-free, relaxing campground with perfect weather. Once I possessed that knowledge, I kicked off my explorin' boots, put away my <a href="http://stevegarufi.com/toys32.jpg">cards</a>, and basked in my new found riches. Fuck yes.

The Enola Gay Burger

There's a place called Arco, Idaho. Somewhere around 1,000 people occupy a small tract of land in the middle of the Idaho National Laboratory, a vast space of flat, flat lands with the occasional rocky mini-mountain jutting up. The image is quite striking, if desolate. At some point, the United States government found these dusty 890 square miles to be the perfect place to set up shop -- atomic power testing shop, that is. And thus was born the National Reactor Testing Station.

But near that test run nuclear reactor there's a place called Arco, Idaho, the first city in the world to have electricity generated by nuclear power. It's atomic past is now apart of Arco's culinary present. Of it's 1,000 or so residents, one saw fit to open a restaurant... or perhaps it could best be described as a diner, I don't know. It straddling the line. "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger," proclaims the billboard! Home of the Atomic Burger? Some shit hole place in some shit hole town? I believe it. And that's not sarcasm. Middle of Nowhere, USA with all it's surrounding cattle land and savage lack of pretension? I believe they make a good burger.


Edith and I drive into Arco and immediately spot the sign, "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger." The sign is suspended from a green wooden building and features an anthropomorphic pickle with a smile on his face, one hand in the air, and the other where his human-pickle crotch would be. Covering himself in modesty? Just too darn excited about the Atomic Burger? I chose the latter explanation, as I myself was growing quite excited about this meal. Especially after days of campsite feasts.

Walking inside did nothing to squelch this excitement. There appeared to be maybe two employees working at the time, judging by the number of tables desperately in need of bussing. We found ourselves a clean, or at least clear, white and gray Formica table and sat down in the green plastic chairs. A few other tables were occupied by locals, several older and almost all in baseball caps. The walls were being used to sell clocks. Clocks that my friends and family should not be surprised to see under the tree this December. They were all made of differently shaped wood pieces, each with a unique image or picture lacquered on. I must applaud the "something for everyone" philosophy of the clock maker. There was an Elvis clock, a cuddly kitten next to a vase of roses clock, an elk clock, a studly Native American clock, and even a muscular unicorn galloping along the Tron racetrack clock. All as tasteful as possible. I began to wonder if they sold gift wrap as well.

According to the menu, the Atomic Burger came with sauteed mushrooms and onions on a corn meal bun and was made with special seasoning that is created, bottled, and sold in Pickle's Place, John's Spice. There was a bottle of this spice created by Arco's culinary rockstar, John, on the table. The label boasted numerous uses for this powdered magic and the ingredients listed garlic, onion, and various peppers, among a number of other spices both specified and not. "Mmmm," I thought to myself sprinkling some on my hand for a sample. "Oh," I said simply, having been mildly disappointed by the flavor. "Well, maybe it needs to be cooked in meat to really be effective," my inner optimist surprisingly offered. I say surprisingly because my inner optimist is buried under so many layers of bitterness and cynicism that I often can't make out what exactly he's trying to say, only an indistinct mumbling.

When the overworked, yet still somehow lackadaisical, waitress finally came to take our order, Edith and I both got an Atomic Burger (every time I say that, I feel as though my voice should get amplified and reverberated). I refrained on the mushrooms; she added cheese to hers. We spent the remaining time chatting about the clocks and musing about what local kids and teens must do in Arco.

Finally, the moment of truth. Our ATOMIC BURGER-Burger-burger arrived. And immediately, my inner optimist was shoved so far down that I fear he may have suffocated to death. It looked weak. All my images of Nagasaki and Indiana Jones flew right out of my brain. All that was left was this burger. This average looking at best burger. A floppy piece of meat with some grilled onions on a normal looking bun. I put the usual lettuce, tomato, onion trimmings on and took a bite.

On second thought, perhaps it was atomic. In the way that the survivors of Hiroshima who got all sickly and radiated were atomic. The highest compliment I can pay this burger is that it was passable. I'd say it was a step up from fast food in that the thought of it doesn't make me want to retch, but neither does it make me want to salivate. In fact, it just makes me mad. If you are going to have a fucking Atomic Burger than have an atomic fucking burger! It's called false advertising and it's illegal, you masturbating pickle. So thank you, Arco. You have effectively built me up and knocked me down. I suddenly no longer feel bad that your high school rodeo team is named the Butte Pirates. Guess we found out what the teens do in Arco.

There's a place called Arco, Idaho. Somewhere around 1,000 people occupy a small tract of land in the middle of the Idaho National Laboratory, a vast space of flat, flat lands with the occasional rocky mini-mountain jutting up. The image is quite striking, if desolate. At some point, the United States government found these dusty 890 square miles to be the perfect place to set up shop -- atomic power testing shop, that is. And thus was born the National Reactor Testing Station.<br /><br />But near that test run nuclear reactor there's a place called Arco, Idaho, the first city in the world to have electricity generated by nuclear power. It's atomic past is now apart of Arco's culinary present. Of it's 1,000 or so residents, one saw fit to open a restaurant... or perhaps it could best be described as a diner, I don't know. It straddling the line. "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger," proclaims the billboard! Home of the Atomic Burger? Some shit hole place in some shit hole town? I believe it. And that's not sarcasm. Middle of Nowhere, USA with all it's surrounding cattle land and savage lack of pretension? I believe they make a good burger.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br /><br />Edith and I drive into Arco and immediately spot the sign, "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger." The sign is suspended from a green wooden building and features an anthropomorphic pickle with a smile on his face, one hand in the air, and the other where his human-pickle crotch would be. Covering himself in modesty? Just too darn excited about the Atomic Burger? I chose the latter explanation, as I myself was growing quite excited about this meal. Especially after days of campsite feasts.<br /><br />Walking inside did nothing to squelch this excitement. There appeared to be maybe two employees working at the time, judging by the number of tables desperately in need of bussing. We found ourselves a clean, or at least clear, white and gray Formica table and sat down in the green plastic chairs. A few other tables were occupied by locals, several older and almost all in baseball caps. The walls were being used to sell clocks. Clocks that my friends and family should not be surprised to see under the tree this December. They were all made of differently shaped wood pieces, each with a unique image or picture lacquered on. I must applaud the "something for everyone" philosophy of the clock maker. There was an Elvis clock, a cuddly kitten next to a vase of roses clock, an elk clock, a studly Native American clock, and even a muscular unicorn galloping along the Tron racetrack clock. All as tasteful as possible. I began to wonder if they sold gift wrap as well.<br /><br />According to the menu, the Atomic Burger came with sauteed mushrooms and onions on a corn meal bun and was made with special seasoning that is created, bottled, and sold in Pickle's Place, John's Spice. There was a bottle of this spice created by Arco's culinary rockstar, John, on the table. The label boasted numerous uses for this powdered magic and the ingredients listed garlic, onion, and various peppers, among a number of other spices both specified and not. "Mmmm," I thought to myself sprinkling some on my hand for a sample. "Oh," I said simply, having been mildly disappointed by the flavor. "Well, maybe it needs to be cooked in meat to really be effective," my inner optimist surprisingly offered. I say surprisingly because my inner optimist is buried under so many layers of bitterness and cynicism that I often can't make out what exactly he's trying to say, only an indistinct mumbling.<br /><br />When the overworked, yet still somehow lackadaisical, waitress finally came to take our order, Edith and I both got an Atomic Burger (every time I say that, I feel as though my voice should get amplified and reverberated). I refrained on the mushrooms; she added cheese to hers. We spent the remaining time chatting about the clocks and musing about what local kids and teens must do in Arco.<br /><br />Finally, the moment of truth. Our ATOMIC BURGER-Burger-burger arrived. And immediately, my inner optimist was shoved so far down that I fear he may have suffocated to death. It looked weak. All my images of Nagasaki and Indiana Jones flew right out of my brain. All that was left was this burger. This average looking at best burger. A floppy piece of meat with some grilled onions on a normal looking bun. I put the usual lettuce, tomato, onion trimmings on and took a bite.<br /><br />On second thought, perhaps it was atomic. In the way that the survivors of Hiroshima who got all sickly and radiated were atomic. The highest compliment I can pay this burger is that it was passable. I'd say it was a step up from fast food in that the thought of it doesn't make me want to retch, but neither does it make me want to salivate. In fact, it just makes me mad. If you are going to have a fucking Atomic Burger than have an atomic fucking burger! It's called false advertising and it's illegal, you masturbating pickle. So thank you, Arco. You have effectively built me up and knocked me down. I suddenly no longer feel bad that your high school rodeo team is named the Butte Pirates. Guess we found out what the teens do in Arco.<br /></span><br /><br /><p>

The Diptera Resistance: A One-Act Play

On an undisclosed stagnant pool of water in Boysen State Park, a colony of mosquitoes gather. Slowly, an older mosquito with a swollen belly ambles towards the podium.


Mosquito Leader: I now call to order the Wyoming Mosquito Fraternal Society meeting on July 12th, 2009. Thank you all for being here. And a special thanks to Buzz Schlessinger, whose wife, Laura, made those delicious Beef Krispy Treats you're all suckling on.

Mosquito Crowd: [smattering of applause] "Juicy," "Very nice," "Thanks, Buzz!," "Mine dripped on my pants," etc.


Leader: Hopefully, you've all had a chance to read over the minutes from the last meeting. I'd now like to propose a motion to approve them.

Skeeter: Motion seconded.

Leader: Any objections?

Mosquito Crowd: [pervasive quietness] "Nope," "Cough," "Gross, I still smell like citronella from last night," etc.

Leader: Ok, motion moved. June minutes approved. Now, I'd like to turn the floor over to Pierce Zancudos, our new President of the Neighborhood Watch. Pierce?

Pierce: Thank you very much, your corpulence. I'd also like to thank all of you for giving me this opportunity. As you all know, I ran on a platform of tightening security. This evening, I would like to really focus on the human threat. These giant mammals put us and our families at risk. We've been at their mercy for too long. I say they do NOT belong in our air space!

Mosquito Crowd: [scattered cheering] "Here here!," "Fight, not flight!," "Screw the terrorist scum!," "Aw, I think they're kinda cute," etc.

Leader: Okay, okay. Settle down everyone. I think it is safe to assume that the majority here would like to see these security initiatives enforced. Pierce, do you have any proposed plans?

Pierce: I do. I feel, and I know I've heard this from many of you as well, that to really show these humans we mean business we need to make an example of one. I'm talkin' 'bout really pooling our resources here and running someone into town and out of our park!

Mosquito Crowd: [vociferous hooting] "You're damn right!," Suck 'em dry!," "Wildlife 4 eva!," "Sorry I'm late," etc.

Leader: Alright! Alright. So we make an example of someone. Let's talk about a plan of action.

Pierce: Absolutely, Sir Sucker. We'll split into three squadrons. Buzz, you will lead the ear brigade. The louder, the better. Meanface McFats, you take our Eye Boys out. Be sure to bulk up with some protein shakes before take off. And finally, I will be leading the biggest squadron, the blood mobilizers. We'll be jabbing out proboscis into every square millimeter of human skin exposed.

Leader: Fantastic. So who is our target?

Pierce: For that, I turn to our Senior Security Advisor. Gnate?

Gnate: Thank you, Mr. President. Our most recent intel indicates there are two new trespassers in our borders. They came in a large wheeled fortress but are currently unprotected. Field agents report they are extremely loud and brazen in their taunts. These two humans are proclaiming how much they love it in our lands. Even going so far as to mention moving in here.

Mosquito Crowd: [rampant booing] "Not in our air!, "We mustn't kow-tow to their demands!," "Out for blood!," "Has any tried sprinkling sage in their blood? It's fabu!," etc.

Leader: Then it's settled, we attack at once! GO! GO! GO!

---

Amelia: Wow, this place is so beautiful.

Edith: I know. I think I'd put my house there by the water.

Amelia: Huh, did it just get buggy?

Edith: There does seem to be a lot of mosquitoes suddenly.

Amelia: Good lord, they're relentless. And holy crap, I think they're organized. RUN!

<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">On an undisclosed stagnant pool of water in Boysen State Park, a colony of mosquitoes gather. Slowly, an older mosquito with a swollen belly ambles towards the podium.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mosquito Leader</span>: I now call to order the Wyoming Mosquito Fraternal Society meeting on July 12th, 2009. Thank you all for being here. And a special thanks to Buzz Schlessinger<em></em>, whose wife, Laura, made those delicious Beef Krispy Treats you're all suckling on.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mosquito Crowd</span>: [smattering of applause] "Juicy," "Very nice," "Thanks, Buzz!," "Mine dripped on my pants," etc.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Leader</span>: Hopefully, you've all had a chance to read over the minutes from the last meeting. I'd now like to propose a motion to approve them.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Skeeter</span>: Motion seconded.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Leader</span>: Any objections?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mosquito Crowd</span>: [pervasive quietness] "Nope," "Cough," "Gross, I still smell like citronella from last night," etc.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Leader</span>: Ok, motion moved. June minutes approved. Now, I'd like to turn the floor over to Pierce Zancudos, our new President of the Neighborhood Watch. Pierce?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pierce</span>: Thank you very much, your corpulence. I'd also like to thank all of you for giving me this opportunity. As you all know, I ran on a platform of tightening security. This evening, I would like to really focus on the human threat. These giant mammals put us and our families at risk. We've been at their mercy for too long. I say they do NOT belong in our air space!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mosquito Crowd</span>: [scattered cheering] "Here here!," "Fight, not flight!," "Screw the terrorist scum!," "Aw, I think they're kinda cute," etc.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Leader</span>: Okay, okay. Settle down everyone. I think it is safe to assume that the majority here would like to see these security initiatives enforced. Pierce, do you have any proposed plans?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pierce</span>: I do. I feel, and I know I've heard this from many of you as well, that to really show these humans we mean business we need to make an example of one. I'm talkin' 'bout really pooling our resources here and running someone into town and out of our park!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mosquito Crowd</span>: [vociferous hooting] "You're damn right!," Suck 'em dry!," "Wildlife 4 eva!," "Sorry I'm late," etc.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Leader</span>: Alright! Alright. So we make an example of someone. Let's talk about a plan of action.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pierce</span>: Absolutely, Sir Sucker. We'll split into three squadrons. Buzz, you will lead the ear brigade. The louder, the better. Meanface McFats, you take our Eye Boys out. Be sure to bulk up with some protein shakes before take off. And finally, I will be leading the biggest squadron, the blood mobilizers. We'll be jabbing out proboscis into every square millimeter of human skin exposed.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Leader</span>: Fantastic. So who is our target?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pierce</span>: For that, I turn to our Senior Security Advisor. Gnate?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gnate</span>: Thank you, Mr. President. Our most recent intel indicates there are two new trespassers in our borders. They came in a large wheeled fortress but are currently unprotected. Field agents report they are extremely loud and brazen in their taunts. These two humans are proclaiming how much they love it in our lands. Even going so far as to mention moving in here.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mosquito Crowd</span>: [rampant booing] "Not in our air!, "We mustn't kow-tow to their demands!," "Out for blood!," "Has any tried sprinkling sage in their blood? It's fabu!," etc.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Leader</span>: Then it's settled, we attack at once! GO! GO! GO!<br /><br />---<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Amelia</span>: Wow, this place is so beautiful.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Edith</span>: I know. I think I'd put my house there by the water.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Amelia</span>: Huh, did it just get buggy?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Edith</span>: There does seem to be a lot of mosquitoes suddenly.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Amelia</span>: Good lord, they're relentless. And holy crap, I think they're organized. RUN!<br /></span><br /><br /><p>

Whyoming?

Dubois. That's Whyoming.

I do hope my Atlanta friends will come visit me.

<a href="http://www.duboiswyoming.org/">Dubois</a>. That's Whyoming.<br /><br />I do hope my Atlanta friends will come visit me.<br /><p>

Love Poem #9

In the dark days of my life
I doubted I'd ever meet you
But you exist! You exist!
O, Nebraska, the light of my heart

I trace my fingers along your body
Feeling the gentle mounds of your dissected plains
Pinching the tip of your rock hard Chimney
Entering the Gateway to your West

The thrill of adrenaline is in my veins
Georgia waits for me in the east
The unintended cuckold of a fiery roadtrip
Can she feel me breath for you?

Like the state-crossed lovers of yore
We know this affair is fleeting
But, sweet Cornhusker, I will remember you
Your postcard sticky with my love

In the dark days of my life<br />I doubted I'd ever meet you<br />But you exist! You exist!<br />O, Nebraska, the light of my heart<br /><br />I trace my fingers along your body<br />Feeling the gentle mounds of your dissected plains<br />Pinching the tip of your rock hard Chimney<br />Entering the Gateway to your West<br /><br />The thrill of adrenaline is in my veins<br />Georgia waits for me in the east<br />The unintended cuckold of a fiery roadtrip<br />Can she feel me breath for you?<br /><br />Like the state-crossed lovers of yore<br />We know this affair is fleeting<br />But, sweet Cornhusker, I will remember you<br />Your postcard sticky with my love<br /><p>

Psychic Touchs "Phenomenons" [sic]

That's what Omaha's own Madame Z was advertising. It didn't take Edith and I long to go in. Madame Z was a 65 year old Filipino woman, about 4'11" with terrible teeth. Upon greeting us, she instantly unleashed her own patent brand of crazy in an accent so thick it made her pearls of wisdom rather difficult to interpret. But what we did understand was extremely educational. So without further ado, I present what we learned:

According to Madame Z...

... Edith and I have the exact same fortune. Perhaps there was a divine one/get one sale in the ether that day.

... there will be money coming in. And maybe that's true, but clearly not into our bank accounts.

... "the gay men" wrote an excellent book about "the scientific approach to astrology." You know, the science of the zodiac.

... you appear more spiritual if your house looks like the Applebee's of religion. The more varied the bric-a-brac's divinity, the better.



... it is acceptable to take calls during someone's reading. Especially when it is your son collect calling you from jail.

... those fuckin' gypsies will just rip you off. She has numerous anecdotes to backup this claim.

... she's the only legit game in town. And she'll point out the federal tax ID certificate posted above the bedroom door to prove it!

... lawyers will also just rip you off. They cost $30,000 and are completely useless compared to Madame Z's patented court spells. (Disclaimer: Only effective for 9 hours.)

... the police are really just in your way. What you need is her special spell to make you invisible to cops. It works. As evidenced by her claim that she drove past a cop doing 75 mph in the heavily traffic lighted downtown and he didn't even blink.

... her inner "psychic" guided her through both the US Citizenship test and the driver's test. I, for one, am glad that she consciously took the driver's test when she admittedly knew nothing and refused to study.

... burning smelly shit keeps the Devil out. And thank goodness for that since she's been possessed by the Dark Prince once already!

... Edith's boyfriend has already found another woman. Guess that explains why Madame Z says the relationship won't last. She seemed really against the idea of Edith's man.

... she's been married twice. The first time at the age of 13 (in the Philippines where such things are apparently legal). Both ex-husbands are now dead or dying.

... if you don't want the expense of divorcing your soon-to-be dying husband then make him divorce you. Somehow. It's cheaper.

... I'm something of a metaphorical lady-killer. Bitch, please! I haven't eaten a ham sandwich since my lesbian days in high school.

... Edith and I both have the ability to be non-metaphorical killers. That's right, kids, Edith and I can ... waaaait fooor iiit... kill with our thoughts! BAM! Uh oh. I may have killed Jon Benet.

That's what Omaha's own Madame Z was advertising. It didn't take Edith and I long to go in. Madame Z was a 65 year old Filipino woman, about 4'11" with terrible teeth. Upon greeting us, she instantly unleashed her own patent brand of crazy in an accent so thick it made her pearls of wisdom rather difficult to interpret. But what we did understand was extremely educational. So without further ado, I present what we learned:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">According to Madame Z...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> Edith and I have the exact same fortune. Perhaps there was a divine one/get one sale in the ether that day.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> there will be money coming in. And maybe that's true, but clearly not into our bank accounts.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> "the gay men" wrote an excellent book about "the scientific approach to astrology." You know, the science of the zodiac.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> you appear more spiritual if your house looks like the Applebee's of religion. The more varied the bric-a-brac's divinity, the better.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> it is acceptable to take calls during someone's reading. Especially when it is your son collect calling you from jail.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> those fuckin' gypsies will just rip you off. She has numerous anecdotes to backup this claim.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> she's the only legit game in town. And she'll point out the federal tax ID certificate posted above the bedroom door to prove it!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> lawyers will also just rip you off. They cost $30,000 and are completely useless compared to Madame Z's patented court spells. (Disclaimer: Only effective for 9 hours.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> the police are really just in your way. What you need is her special spell to make you invisible to cops. It works. As evidenced by her claim that she drove past a cop doing 75 mph in the heavily traffic lighted downtown and he didn't even blink.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> her inner "psychic" guided her through both the US Citizenship test and the driver's test. I, for one, am glad that she consciously took the driver's test when she admittedly knew nothing and refused to study.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> burning smelly shit keeps the Devil out. And thank goodness for that since she's been possessed by the Dark Prince once already!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> Edith's boyfriend has already found another woman. Guess that explains why Madame Z says the relationship won't last. She seemed really against the idea of Edith's man.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> she's been married twice. The first time at the age of 13 (in the Philippines where such things are apparently legal). Both ex-husbands are now dead or dying.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> if you don't want the expense of divorcing your soon-to-be dying husband then make him divorce you. Somehow. It's cheaper.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> I'm something of a metaphorical lady-killer. Bitch, please! I haven't eaten a ham sandwich since my lesbian days in high school.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> Edith and I both have the ability to be non-metaphorical killers. That's right, kids, Edith and I can ... waaaait fooor iiit... <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">kill with our thoughts!</span></span> BAM! Uh oh. I may have killed Jon Benet.<br /></span><br /><br /><p>

Tour of Homos: Omaha Mining Company

The Omaha Mining Company has simultaneously the most crass and amazing name for a gay bar in the history of faggotry. The expected classiness was immediately apparent when I had to tear my eyes away from the porn that played on about four televisions all over the room just to order my drink. The bartender was wearing a shirt that asked me to "Say Hello to [his] not so little friend" with an arrow pointing to what I can only imagine was the rug burn on his knees. My vodka tonic came in a mason jar with a neon green straw. About 12 hours later I realized that they were probably going for some old-timey miner theme by having those. ... or maybe I'm over thinking the 200 for $15 purchase.

My friend asked why my vodka tonic looked blue -- a valid question. Turns out it was because the Omaha Mining Company has black lights for their overhead lights. At first, that may seem like it would up the skank factor but really, I found it to make quite a brazen "No Monkey-Punky" statement. I feel I must mention that the black light did not reveal anything that would concern ABC News. Which is probably because the only thing those four guys on the television were doing was innocently showering together.

What did up the skank factor was Mr. Cool who strolled into the bar at 12:15am wearing shades. Perhaps if this were one of Omaha's six months of perpetual light then sunglasses at night would be logical. Yet even then it would not be acceptable to continue wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit bar (remember, no overhead lights) as Mr. Cool did. After getting his drink, he proceeded onto the painfully empty dance floor, blatantly disregarded the sign declaring there was no drinking in that part of the bar. He then shimmy-rigged with the only man who was anywhere close to his level of coolness: his reflection in the mirrored walls.

And oh, the music he boogied to! Never before had I seen such a disconnect between the music and a bar's patronage. To every single song the exact same techno beat was layered on top. How do I know it was the exact same beat? Because no matter what was playing -- be it Hooked on a Feeling, Let's Dance, or the Pussycat Dolls (yes, that was honestly the playlist) -- the rainbow string decoration on the ceiling fan, or fan flair, was swinging in time so perfectly I feel as though it was taunting Mr. Cool. So who does the Omaha Mining Company think enjoys this constant barrage of a single beat? Various men all over the age of 40, several of them drinking alone. Save the two out of place preppies in maybe their late-20's, the average age was 52. Maybe that's why the dance floor was so empty. Or why on a Friday night there were only 19 people there, including me and my friends. Or why the decorations included giant Zima ads, an oversized stuffed Tweety Bird, and a big ol' Winnie the Pooh. Wait, no, I'm sorry. That last one is just because it's a terrible bar.



[Incidentally, Nebraska has an earlier last call than Georgia. 1am versus 2am. I, honestly, did not think I would come across a place with tighter drinking laws than Georgia.]
The Omaha Mining Company has simultaneously the most crass and amazing name for a gay bar in the history of faggotry. The expected classiness was immediately apparent when I had to tear my eyes away from the porn that played on about four televisions all over the room just to order my drink. The bartender was wearing a shirt that asked me to "Say Hello to [his] not so little friend" with an arrow pointing to what I can only imagine was the rug burn on his knees. My vodka tonic came in a mason jar with a neon green straw. About 12 hours later I realized that they were probably going for some old-timey miner theme by having those. ... or maybe I'm over thinking the 200 for $15 purchase.<br /><br />My friend asked why my vodka tonic looked blue -- a valid question. Turns out it was because the Omaha Mining Company has black lights for their overhead lights. At first, that may seem like it would up the skank factor but really, I found it to make quite a brazen "No Monkey-Punky" statement. I feel I must mention that the black light did not reveal anything that would concern <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/Health/story?id=1507794">ABC News</a>. Which is probably because the only thing those four guys on the television were doing was innocently showering together.<br /><br />What did up the skank factor was Mr. Cool who strolled into the bar at 12:15am wearing shades. Perhaps if this were one of Omaha's six months of perpetual light then sunglasses at night would be logical. Yet even then it would not be acceptable to continue wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit bar (remember, no overhead lights) as Mr. Cool did. After getting his drink, he proceeded onto the painfully empty dance floor, blatantly disregarded the sign declaring there was no drinking in that part of the bar. He then shimmy-rigged with the only man who was anywhere close to his level of coolness: his reflection in the mirrored walls.<br /><br />And oh, the music he boogied to! Never before had I seen such a disconnect between the music and a bar's patronage. To every single song the exact same techno beat was layered on top. How do I know it was the exact same beat? Because no matter what was playing -- be it <span style="font-style: italic;">Hooked on a Feeling</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Let's Dance</span>, or the Pussycat Dolls (yes, that was honestly the playlist) -- the rainbow string decoration on the ceiling fan, or fan flair, was swinging in time so perfectly I feel as though it was taunting Mr. Cool. So who does the Omaha Mining Company think enjoys this constant barrage of a single beat? Various men all over the age of 40, several of them drinking alone. Save the two out of place preppies in maybe their late-20's, the average age was 52. Maybe that's why the dance floor was so empty. Or why on a Friday night there were only 19 people there, including me and my friends. Or why the decorations included giant Zima ads, an oversized stuffed Tweety Bird, and a big ol' Winnie the Pooh. Wait, no, I'm sorry. That last one is just because it's a terrible bar.<br /><br /><br /><br />[Incidentally, Nebraska has an earlier last call than Georgia. 1am versus 2am. I, honestly, did not think I would come across a place with tighter drinking laws than Georgia.]

It Says, Thing Says: Dueling Gringos

It says: Goddamn Mexicans! Invading our nice, safe cities. Now there's signs in Mexican all over the damn place. This is Amurica! Where we speak God's English. They take away jobs from hard working Amuricans, refuse to pay taxes, and then run off and have twenty babies before they're even sixteen years old! Plus, they steal.

Thing says: But Los Portales.

It says: This was a good town before them Mexican gangbangers came rolling in with their old Cadillacs and crazy latin polka. Them lazy bastards sit around all day drinking and doing rim jobs on these Caddies. Which is an Amurican car! It's blasphemy seeing some wetback muddying up an honest-to-god trusty Amurican classic like that.

Thing says: But, seriously, Los Portales!

It says: Now my wife don't feel safe in our own city, what with the now ever present threat of rape. Them Mexicans are violent, dirty, stupid, lazy, unlawful, and just plain bad for Amurica! 9/11!! Not to mention those little shithole restaurants they open. Uglying up our fair city...

Thing says: WHOA! Now you crossed a line, bitch. You wanna keep talking about Los Portales? Because I will fuckin cut you. Good, cheap, ridiculously authentic Mexican food is one of the ways Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Vishnu, Kukulcan, and L. Ron Hubbard reward us for being sensational.

It says: But look at...

Thing says: NO! You look at it! It's everything everyone wants and more. LOS PORTALES PARA PRESIDENTE DE LA TIERRA!
<span style="font-weight: bold;">It says:</span> Goddamn Mexicans! Invading our nice, safe cities. Now there's signs in Mexican all over the damn place. This is Amurica! Where we speak God's English. They take away jobs from hard working Amuricans, refuse to pay taxes, and then run off and have twenty babies before they're even sixteen years old! Plus, they steal.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thing says:</span> But <a href="http://www.omaha.com/article/20090703/DININGREVIEWS/707039846">Los Portales</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It says:</span> This was a good town before them Mexican gangbangers came rolling in with their old Cadillacs and crazy latin polka. Them lazy bastards sit around all day drinking and doing rim jobs on these Caddies. Which is an Amurican car! It's blasphemy seeing some wetback muddying up an honest-to-god trusty Amurican classic like that.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thing says:</span> But, seriously, <a href="http://www.omahalatino.com/LatinoConWebos/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=142:los-portales&catid=64:dining&Itemid=56">Los Portales</a>!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It says:</span> Now my wife don't feel safe in our own city, what with the now ever present threat of rape. Them Mexicans are violent, dirty, stupid, lazy, unlawful, and just plain bad for Amurica! 9/11!! Not to mention those little shithole restaurants they open. Uglying up our fair city...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thing says: </span>WHOA! Now you crossed a line, bitch. You wanna keep talking about Los Portales? Because I will fuckin cut you. Good, cheap, ridiculously authentic Mexican food is one of the ways Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Vishnu, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kukulkan">Kukulcan</a>, and L. Ron Hubbard reward us for being sensational.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It says:</span> But look at...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thing says:</span> NO! You look at it! It's everything everyone wants and more. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">LOS PORTALES PARA PRESIDENTE DE LA TIERRA!</span>

Dear Missouri,

If they were to bottle and sell your essence, it would be called Eau d'Snooze and the commercial would be a bunch of white people sitting in silence eating corn. You make me want to drink but I can't because I'm driving. Then again, a fiery auto crash may just be the thing I need to be shaken from this coma-like stupor you've put me in. The only thing keeping me going is the promise of Nebraska beyond your borders. Nebraska!! A state I, frankly, am still not convinced exists. This, Missouri, is how much you blow.

Love,
Tranny Dog
If they were to bottle and sell your essence, it would be called Eau d'Snooze and the commercial would be a bunch of white people sitting in silence eating corn. You make me want to drink but I can't because I'm driving. Then again, a fiery auto crash may just be the thing I need to be shaken from this coma-like stupor you've put me in. The only thing keeping me going is the promise of Nebraska beyond your borders. <span style="font-style: italic;">Nebraska</span>!! A state I, frankly, am still not convinced exists. This, Missouri, is how much you blow.<br /><br />Love,<br />Tranny Dog

Goodbye, Cruel World

Ah, running away from the pain. Janie did it, Brave Sir Robin did it, and I do it. Mostly I call upon Sweet Lady Liquor when an escape is necessary but we all know the dream is always to actually physically leave. In my head it goes something like this:

I forsake city life and move to some extremely rural town where nobody knows me. I get a job doing something physical, maybe working the land. I grow hard and rugged. I'm often dusty but it only adds to my handsome masculinity. I work, I drink whiskey & rye, I'm strong & silent. And that's how I live out my life - simple, but that's all a man needs.

Of course, sometimes it goes like this:

I leave everything behind and go to Europe. Maybe Madrid or Paris or Athens... definitely somewhere I don't speak the language. But as I learn to communicate, my new bohemian friends immerse me in the culture. Each day I begin to glow a little more. My waist shrinks and I accumulate chic, simple dresses that allow my natural beauty & curves to show. Eventually, I meet him. He is elegant and funny with a relaxed philosophy toward life. We drink wine and fall in love. And that's how I live out my life - as his wife, taking care of our homey apartment in the city and the beautiful countryside villa. Laughing, eating, loving.

Of course, what ended up happening in real life went like this:

I left my home and began wandering the streets with my brother. Soon we realized that with no steady way of getting food, we would starve. We went to and fro in search of help that would come too late for my brother. He was hit by a car and killed. I dragged his corpse with me to the entrance of an old landfill. That was where I lost my energy and couldn't go on. Using an old Doritos bag as a pillow, I set up camp. And then the hunger began to take over. Though I'm not sure of my brother's nutritional value, the fact he was nutrition at all made it totally worth it. And that's how I thought I'd live out my life - feeding on the rotting corpse of my dead brother and sleeping in trash.

Of course, help did come and now I've got my stable living situation. But that's why I doubt I'll ever see those first two scenarios come to life. So my current need to run will be a trip and not a forsaking of my home.

My friend, Edith, and I are embarking on a Pity Party Roadtrip. She was recently a victim of the economy and I a victim of heartbreak. I'm not sure where we'll end up yet but I do know that I will be writing about our adventures. Due to an expected lack of internet, my travelogue may not be transcribed here until I get back (whenever that is) but as soon as I can, I'll update.

Happy Travels!!
Ah, running away from the pain. <a href="http://www.aerosmith.com/">Janie</a> did it, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZwuTo7zKM8">Brave Sir Robin</a> did it, and I do it. Mostly I call upon Sweet Lady Liquor when an escape is necessary but we all know the dream is always to actually physically leave. In my head it goes something like this:<br /><blockquote>I forsake city life and move to some extremely rural town where nobody knows me. I get a job doing something physical, maybe working the land. I grow hard and rugged. I'm often dusty but it only adds to my handsome masculinity. I work, I drink whiskey & rye, I'm strong & silent. And that's how I live out my life - simple, but that's all a man needs.</blockquote>Of course, sometimes it goes like this:<br /><blockquote>I leave everything behind and go to Europe. Maybe Madrid or Paris or Athens... definitely somewhere I don't speak the language. But as I learn to communicate, my new bohemian friends immerse me in the culture. Each day I begin to glow a little more. My waist shrinks and I accumulate chic, simple dresses that allow my natural beauty & curves to show. Eventually, I meet him. He is elegant and funny with a relaxed philosophy toward life. We drink wine and fall in love. And that's how I live out my life - as his wife, taking care of our homey apartment in the city and the beautiful countryside villa. Laughing, eating, loving.</blockquote>Of course, what ended up happening in real life went like this:<br /><blockquote>I left my home and began wandering the streets with my brother. Soon we realized that with no steady way of getting food, we would starve. We went to and fro in search of help that would come too late for my brother. He was hit by a car and killed. I dragged his corpse with me to the entrance of an old landfill. That was where I lost my energy and couldn't go on. Using an old Doritos bag as a pillow, I set up camp. And then <span style="font-style: italic;">the hunger</span> began to take over. Though I'm not sure of my brother's nutritional value, the fact he was nutrition at all made it totally worth it. And that's how I thought I'd live out my life - feeding on the rotting corpse of my dead brother and sleeping in trash.</blockquote>Of course, help did come and now I've got my stable living situation. But that's why I doubt I'll ever see those first two scenarios come to life. So my current need to run will be a trip and not a forsaking of my home.<br /><br />My friend, Edith, and I are embarking on a Pity Party Roadtrip. She was recently a victim of the economy and I a victim of heartbreak. I'm not sure where we'll end up yet but I do know that I will be writing about our adventures. Due to an expected lack of internet, my travelogue may not be transcribed here until I get back (whenever that is) but as soon as I can, I'll update.<br /><br />Happy Travels!!